


That Same Old Love

by Jiksa



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Break Up, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Infidelity, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Thisthingof theirs was always going to fall apart. Nick just hadn’t realised how much of himself it would take down with it.
Relationships: Nick Grimshaw/Elgar Johnson, Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	That Same Old Love

**Author's Note:**

> Early 2016. Nick's moving from Primrose Hill to Stoke Newington, moving house and moving on. Harry's band's been on hiatus for a while, not that Nick's seen him.
> 
> Story told in two parts.

**May 2016**  
It takes longer than it should to realize that the box Nick’s been putting together of Harry’s things is _the break up box_. He’s got a Sharpie in one hand and packing tape in the other, meticulously labelled moving boxes stacked high around him, and it winds him like a sucker punch he really, really should’ve seen coming.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, slumping heavily onto his sofa and draining the rest of his wine. His hands feel numb, his chest tight. _Shit. It's actually over._

—

**December 2011**  
The first time Harry lay beneath him, sweat-slick and begging and not yet eighteen, his eyes were wide and bright and demanding.

They were also _terrified_ , but Nick wouldn’t learn to recognize that in him for a while.

—

**May 2016**  
It’s not like there was an actual proper break up, not really. Nick said a few things he hadn’t quite meant to say; Harry slammed the door shut behind him on his way out. The Internet says he’s been back to London since, even if Harry’s not said a word. It’s fine, though, Nick can take a hint.

Harry’s been coming and going for five years now, sleeping off his jet lag in Nick’s bed, eating everything in Nick’s fridge and dumping his shit all over Nick’s floor like the world’s worst house guest. It’s been five years of him letting Nick deeper and deeper inside of himself, of trusting Nick to keep his secrets, of coming and going but always, always, _always_ coming back.

Pixie keeps insisting that Nick leaving Primrose Hill marks the _end of an era_ , which is a touch dramatic but not entirely off. He’s been starting to feel his age is all, thirty-one and a little knackered and like he just wants something good to call his own. He’s finally had his fill of the scene after all these years, bored with parties that don’t end and beautiful boys who won’t stay past breakfast.

The new house has room for a grown up home office, a storage lockup in the basement and a nice little yard ‘round the back for Pig to wreak havoc in. He’ll get another dog once they’ve settled, so Pig’ll be less lonely when he’s not home, and maybe he’ll be a little less lonely altogether.

The last time Nick saw him, Harry was still a few days shy of twenty-two, his still-long hair pulled into a messy bun. They were groggy and hungover in Nick’s kitchen, the chaos of Harry’s birthday drinks still ringing in their ears. Nick had thrown on some clothes as he’d stumbled out of bed, but Harry was still naked and golden brown all over, freshly fucked and sleepy slow and stubbornly determined to make Nick breakfast. Nick’s heart had fluttered distressingly in his chest as Harry sifted flour all over the counter and dropped butter on the floor and made a right fucking mess of everything.

The door slamming behind Harry that morning had hurt more than Nick thought he’d ever be capable of hurting over something as silly as a boy. His hands had shaken as he’d poured half-mixed dough into the rubbish bin and vacuumed flour off the floor. He’d dry heaved over the sink, splashed cold water on his face and had a puff of his inhaler, but it hadn’t helped at all.

And now it’s May already, months later, and there’s no room for Harry where Nick’s going. Not anymore. The place in his chest that Harry used to fill now feels like an emptied-out auditorium, a burnt-out field, a bombed-out building. When Nick thinks of him now, those thoughts ricochet inside of him like a pin ball, smashing up against soft tender things he hadn't known could bruise this badly.

Pig comes to rest her chin on his knee and looks up at him with her big, soft brown eyes. He scritches under her ear, bending down to bump his nose against her snout. She heaves a big, weary sigh. _Yeah_ , he thinks. _Same._

The sun sets on his mostly packed-up flat and Primrose Hill past the windows while Adele begs _let me photograph you in this light in case it is the last time_. Nick can’t help but remember sunlight catching in Harry's curls on a dirt road somewhere in Cheshire, butterflies in Nick’s stomach as Harry looked at him through the lens of his old Leica M6. He almost turns the radio off when she sings, _my god, this reminds me of when we were young_ , but Harry doesn’t get to fucking ruin Adele for him on top of everything else.

In the end, he scrawls _Harry_ across the side of the cardboard box and carefully tapes it up. It doesn’t even feel that awkward to text him after that, just a quickly typed, _Got a box of your things. Where’d you want me to send it?_

His phone rings while he’s brushing his teeth and he stares at Harry’s display picture on the screen, his toothbrush bitten between his molars as he lets it ring out. Harry doesn’t leave a message. Nick spits and rinses and swishes mouthwash around his mouth. _Don’t need to talk, just need an address. Hampstead house? Your mum’s? Fan club HQ?_.

Harry writes, _It doesn’t have to be like this_ , but Nick’s pretty sure it does.

—

**January 2012**  
Harry had been frantic with it, that night at Shoreditch House after his band’s show at Hammersmith Apollo. He’d shown up in the early a.m., still damp from his shower, his leg bouncing restlessly against Nick’s when he’d perched on the sofa beside him. He’d downed two drinks in rapid succession and made some distracted small talk with Gellz and Pixie, but he’d been lit up like a live wire and Nick had felt the electricity crackling between them everywhere their bodies were touching.

When the girls had gone out for a fag, Harry had leaned too-close for where they were, knuckles nudging Nick’s inner thigh. “C’mon,” he’d muttered hoarsely, his dry lips brushing against the stubble on Nick’s neck, his teeth scraping the bone in Nick’s jaw. “Let’s go back to yours.”

“You just got here,” Nick had whispered, smelling whiskey on Harry’s breath when he turned to meet his dark, wild eyes.

Harry had swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Please.”

When Nick had turned a guilty glance back at his remaining mates, ready to make their excuses, Henry’s eyebrow had been eloquently raised already. “Grab your coat, love,” he’d stage whispered, a hand to the side of his smirking mouth. “I’d say you’ve pulled.”

Harry had stiffened beside him, something like distress flickering across his face, but Nick hadn’t yet learned to recognise what that looked like on him. “C’mon,” he’d said again, and Nick had been helpless to do anything else.

A black car had pulled up the minute the two of them had snuck out the backdoor of the venue, the driver greeting Harry as “Mr Styles.” Harry hadn’t kissed him until they’d stumbled through the door of Nick’s flat, but then he hadn’t stopped until he’d thrown his head back in orgasm, clenching hard around the careful finger Nick had slipped inside him.

The next morning Nick had waved at another black car from the stairs outside of his flat, the windows tinted so dark that he couldn’t tell if Harry was waving back. He’d already started counting down the days until another plane would bring Harry back around.

Harry had sent Nick a text from a hotel room in Glasgow later that night, _We can trust Henry, yeah?_

 _Implicitly,_ Nick had replied, something inexplicably sore coiling tight inside of him. _Don’t worry._

—

**May 2016**  
He should probably be surprised when Harry turns up at Radio 1 on Friday morning. He isn’t, though.

He sees Finchy’s text after he’s signed off and hung up his headphones. _FYI your lover boy’s here. I hid him in meeting room 13._ Clara winks knowingly at him as she pulls the headphones over her ears and adjusts the dials to her liking. Christ, Harry’s always known how to make an entrance. 

He doesn’t make eye contact with Fifi or Producer Will, just can’t. He hasn’t said much to either of them, only that Harry’s off-limits as an on-air conversation topic until further notice. They seem to have understood he’s off-limits off the airwaves, as well.

He goes to take a piss and fuck with his hair. Dying it platinum blonde wasn’t the worst idea he’s ever had, but it has a terrible side effect of emphasising the shadows under his eyes. It’s been a long week, is all. He’s knackered.

When he finds him in meeting room 13, Harry’s got a crumpled up paper bag and a cup of takeaway coffee beside him from the downstairs cafeteria. His jacket’s slung over a chair and the phone he’s bent over is plugged into the wall. It looks like he’s been here for a while.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Nick says breezily, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t care what it looks like. Anyone could walk past, but shutting the door behind himself doesn’t feel like an option. “Didn’t even know you were in the country.”

“Got in this morning,” Harry says, getting gingerly out of his chair but not coming any closer. Nick’s seen pictures, of course, but it’s still a shock to see Harry’s hair this short again. He looks older than his twenty-two years, strangely different from the boy that stormed out of Nick’s life three months ago. He needs a shave. “Your flat’s all boxed up. I didn’t know you were moving.”

Nick digs his nails into his biceps. Harry has no right to let himself into Nick’s flat, not anymore. He’d not even considered that Harry still had keys. “Stoke Newington. Pig’s had enough of the glitz and glam, wanted somewhere to wear cardigans and take up knitting. I got the keys last night.”

“Stokie’s nice. Quiet.”

“Mm.”

Harry shrugs. “Bit further from the city, though.”

“Barely.”

“Further from work, at least.”

Harry’s utter rubbish at small talk at the best of times, Nick doesn’t even know why he’s trying right now. He glances down the hallway to ensure they’re not being overheard. “You can’t just show up here like this.”

“Um.” Harry looks surprised, or maybe hurt, as though he has any right to be either. “Since when?”

Nick sighs. “This is my job, Haz. I actually take this thing seriously.”

“Okay.” Harry frowns, apparently still uncomprehending, and starts gathering his things. He slips his coat back on. “Okay, yeah, we can leave.”

“No, we can’t,” Nick snaps before he can reign it in. “I have a meeting with my team, then I’m running errands and meeting someone for dinner. I’m busy.”

“Someone?” Harry’s head turns sharply, his fingers stilling on the buttons of his coat. “What kind of someone?”

It hits Nick in the chest, that look on his face, it really does. But it's not enough. “None of your business, is it? You can’t just show up out of nowhere and expect me to drop everything, not anymore.”

Harry mercifully doesn’t ask, _Since when?_

Because the entirety of their non-relationship has been Harry materialising out of thin air and Nick defying the laws of physics to make time and space for him where there wasn’t any before. Harry only exists to Nick in damp, hazy moments in the middle of the night, in blurry Skype video calls at disorienting times of the day and frantic pit stop lunches between somewhere Harry’s just been and somewhere he's already running late for. He only exists in stops and starts, in cravings and binges, in desperately wanting and briefly having and then wanting even worse than before.

A tendon jumps in Harry’s cheek. He clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he says cautiously, still so unlike himself. “I’ll wait at your flat.”

Nick pinches the inside of his bicep. It’s going to bruise. “Don’t bother.”

“Nick—”

“I’m serious. We don’t have to do this.”

Harry sighs, coming closer. “I flew halfway across the world. My stuff’s all at yours. Please.”

Nick’s always had a fucking weakness for Harry’s _please_ , but he just… can’t. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay at mine. Leave the keys on your way out.”

Harry stops in front of him, too close for where they are, far too close for comfort, his breath warm against Nick’s cheek. “Nick,” he says. Pleads, if Nick’s not mistaken. He’s always been so beautiful when he begs. “Babe.”

Nick shakes his head and stares resolutely at the floor. He bumps the toes of his trainers against the ugly carpet. _Babe._ Christ. “Can’t do this anymore, Haz. Just go.”

Harry lets out a slow, shaky breath. Nick’s holding his own, his arms tight around his aching chest. Everything about Harry just hurts now, everything inside of Nick sore from him.

Harry’s worn chelsea boots barely make a sound as they disappear down the carpeted hallway, but Nick is already intimately acquainted with the sound of Harry walking away.

His hands are only shaking a little when he opens the _Faves_ group chat on WhatsApp. _boozy din dins tonight, who’s in? xx_

—

**February 2012**  
The first time Harry let Nick inside of him, he’d tried to make a run for it as soon as Nick dozed off. Nick had woken with a start, fretting before Harry — Harry, fuck, _Harry_ — shushed him and held his shoulder and said, “Grimmy, hey, calm— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Nick had exhaled shakily into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, waiting for his nervous system to catch up with his brain. He’d glanced at his alarm clock on the nightstand. They’d gone to bed barely three hours ago, and at least two of those had been spent taking each other to absolute fucking pieces.

It wasn’t the first time Harry’d spent the night, but it was the first time he’d come straight from the airport into Nick’s bed and they’d fucked sober and slow and deliberate, with the bedside lamp on. Harry’s eyes had been bright and wild and he’d bloody _giggled_ the second time Nick made him come. Nick had kissed him then, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, until he was writhing and breathless and spreading his legs for a third.

The black car hadn’t been scheduled until after midday; Nick had bought bacon and eggs and pesto sauce and nice bread especially. And yet Harry had been unmistakably dressed at 3 a.m., his socked feet tucked beneath his skinny jean-clad legs where he was sitting half-on Nick’s bed, half-out the door. “Hit and run?” Nick had joked, aiming for coy and falling noticeably short even to his own ears.

“Nah,” Harry had said apologetically, like what he’d actually meant to say was _yes._ “I just. This is a lot, you know?”

“A lot,” Nick had repeated, trying to make sense of Harry’s strange face in the dim light filtering in from the street outside. His hand was still warm on Nick’s shoulder. Nick had touched his thigh. “You okay? Did I— Was last night not—”

“No, I mean. Yes. It was brilliant. I just. I can’t.”

Nick had waited for the _but_ , but Harry had just held his gaze like he’d said everything he’d meant to say. “Okay?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Nick had cleared his throat and sat up straighter, trying to get a handle on himself, the situation, Harry, anything. “What do you mean, hurt me?”

“I just.” Harry had ducked his head and taken a big, steadying breath. It had made Nick’s heart kick in his chest. “I can’t be your boyfriend.”

Nick hadn’t meant to burst out laughing, he really hadn’t. He’d just been coiled too tight and then the teenager in his bed had said _that_ , earnest as fucking anything, and he’d just accidentally lost it. “God, Styles.”

“I really like you,” Harry had said quickly, like he was rushing to let Nick down easy. His hand had curled into a fist against Nick’s shoulder. “Like, this was… _so fucking amazing_ , but I can’t. I’ve got to think of the other lads... I mean, there’s just no fucking way I could actually _be_ with you.”

“God, stop.” Nick had cupped his face, prepared to pull him back off whatever ledge he was about to throw himself off of. Harry had leaned into him, looking guilty and greedy and so, so lost. “This is fine. You, me, casual sex, no strings, no bullshit. I have exactly zero intention of falling in love with you, popstar. I don’t do boyfriends, least of all famous teenage ones.”

(And he'd meant it, he really had. He just wouldn't mean it for long. Falling for Harry had been as unexpected as it had been unstoppable.)

Harry’s eyes had done that too-bright, too-sharp, too-wild thing that Nick was starting to recognize as abject terror. He’d swallowed thickly, looking between Nick’s eyes and mouth and naked chest. “You can't tell anyone. I’m serious, I can’t risk—”

Harry’s lips had been soft under Nick’s thumb, bitten red and kiss-swollen and wet from where he’d been worrying them. He’d already been so beautiful to Nick, even then. “You’re not the first closeted boy I’ve fucked, love. Your secret’s safe with me. And my friends, for that matter.”

“Fuck, I want to believe you.” Harry had slumped against him, deflating with a shaky exhale. “No bullshit?”

“No bullshit,” Nick had promised, leaning in to push his flannel shirt off his back. He'd wrapped his long fingers around Harry's tense shoulder. “Come back to bed, you’re all worked up.”

He’d expected Harry to kiss him, but instead he’d pushed his face into Nick’s naked shoulder and just breathed like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “I can’t be bent,” he’d said after a while, voice muffled against Nick’s skin. “I just can’t. You get that, yeah?”

Nick had just held him tighter without saying anything, sadness settling heavily inside him. Yeah, he’d gotten it.

—

**May 2016**  
He ends up going ‘round to Ian and Aimee’s, lounging on their couch with her while Ian fries chicken and dresses salad and sets the table. Scott’s show is playing in the kitchen, Selena Gomez irritatingly singing “Same Old Love” over the speakers. Nick loved that record when it first hit the airwaves, then Harry slammed a door behind him and now it just feels like pressing down on a bruise.

He wasn’t going to say anything, but Aimee pulls him into a tight hug the minute he walks in the door and refuses to let go until he’s lowered his shoulders. He doesn’t mean to cling to her after that, but— it just kind of happens.

When he finally pulls back, Ian’s standing in the doorway to the living room with a bottle of wine in his hands. Ian’s never been one for hugs or emotional displays, but nothing says “I am supportive of your emotional processing during this trying time” quite like a bottle of cab sav extended upon arrival. Nick twists the cap off and gratefully takes a sip straight from the bottle. “You heard, huh?”

Ian shrugs a shoulder, looking a little guilty. “Can’t really walk into a building without causing a riot, can he?”

Aimee takes Nick’s coat and ushers him into the living room. “C’mon babe,” she says gently. “Let’s get a little twatted. Ian’ll fix us dinner before he goes to work.”

Selena sings _you left in peace, left me in pieces_ while Aimee cards her fingers through Nick’s wilting hair on the sofa. He doesn’t really know how to talk about it; she mercifully doesn’t make him. Instead she leans in close to whisper, “Can you keep a secret?”

Nick snorts around his mouthful of red, before handing the bottle back to her. “Oh, definitely not.”

“Shush, I know you can.” She takes a sip before pointing the bottle towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna put a baby in that man.”

Nick cranes his neck to see Ian loading the dishwasher with a pep in his step, seemingly oblivious that he has an audience. “You sure he has the hips for it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Nick smiles at her, settling his head back against her thighs. “You and Ian procreating. That’s a little bit cute, that is.”

“Mm,” Aimee hums. “D’you think we can pull it off?”

“God, if you two can’t, there’s no hope for anyone else.”

Aimee runs her fingertips over the shell of his ear while Scott leads into Innuendo Bingo. “You look really beat, hon.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his aching chest. He knows what he looks like. “I’ll be better once the move’s over.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push either. Instead she presses her fingertips into his scalp and runs her thumb over the back of his neck. “Anyone ever tell you you smell like pine needles and have a face like sunshine?”

Nick rolls his eyes, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and holding on. “Oh, get your shit together, Carol.”

—

**August 2012**  
“Wasn’t expecting that many drag queens and blokes in tiny pants,” Harry had slurred, tucking himself into Rita’s side in the backseat of the taxi. She’d ruffled his hair and pressed a kiss to his temple. Her lipstick had mostly worn off, but it had still left a smudge by his eyebrow. “The tiniest pants.”

Nick had snorted and taken another swig of his water bottle, slouching in the passenger seat as the taxi made its way around Regent’s Park towards Primrose Hill. He’d adjusted the rear view mirror to keep an eye on them. “Pretty foul, innit?”

Rita had smiled, pressing another kiss to Harry’s forehead. She hadn’t been quite as drunk as them, but then again she’d had to perform that night. “How was your first time at a gay bar, then?”

“You were _so_ good,” Harry had said earnestly, looking at Rita like he always looked at people. Intensely, intimately, like they were the only person in the world at that given moment. It shouldn’t have meant anything; Nick had seen him look at fans and interviewers and Nick’s mum with the same unwavering intensity. It had never meant anything to Nick unless he was on the receiving end of it, and then all it meant was butterflies and stomach aches and sweet, wretched trouble. It shouldn’t have meant anything then either, except for how Harry was a handsy drunk and Rita was looking positively _charmed_. “So good.”

“Rita Ora in her natural habitat,” Nick had said stiffly. “Professional fag hag.”

“You really think I was good?” Rita had said, softly like it was just for Harry. Nick had rolled his eyes, not that either of them had noticed.

“Mmm,” Harry had said, leaning in to brush his lips chastely against hers. Nick had snogged just about every single one of his mates at some point or another, including Rita, but that didn’t mean he could stomach watching Harry do the same. “You should come home with us.”

“Yeah?” Rita had whispered, dragging her teeth over Harry’s bottom lip and smudging her red lipstick over his pink mouth. “You think so?”

Harry had caught Nick’s eye in the rear view mirror, apparently only belatedly realising that he should’ve cleared it with Nick before inviting someone into bed with them. “She should come home with us, yeah?”

Nick had held his eyes for longer than he’d known what to do with. He’d known Harry fucked and dated and fell in love with girls, that he was only Harry’s _no bullshit_ secret fuck on the side. He’d had no right to feel betrayed. “Nah, mate.”

A flicker of something unrecognisable had crossed Harry's face. Irritation, maybe. Disappointment. Not guilt. 

The two of them had broken apart awkwardly and then dissolved suddenly into giggles in the backseat. Harry had inexplicably told a knock-knock joke that ended in _no, you’re a poo_. Nick had tipped the rear view mirror up so he couldn’t see them anymore and had kept his eyes fixed forwards, trying to hold his liquor.

After they’d brushed their teeth and drunk water and set an alarm for when Harry’s black car would inevitably come for him, Harry had reached for Nick’s turned shoulder with gentle fingers. “Grimmy,” he’d whispered. “About earlier, I didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to fuss about,” Nick had muttered into his pillow, still trying to keep himself together. “Just not my mates.”

“I just thought—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nick had insisted, pulling the covers closer. “Just not my mates.”

Harry’s fingers had faltered on his shoulder, then disappeared. “Okay, yeah. Promise.”

Nick had pretended to fall asleep, and then at some point he must have.

—

**May 2016**  
He should probably be surprised to see Harry’s suitcases still in his hallway when he comes home that night. He isn’t, though.

He lets himself in quietly, toeing off his shoes and hanging his coat up in the near-empty hallway closet. The lights are off in the flat, but a flicker of color from the living room tells him Harry’s got the TV on with the sound off. Pig doesn’t come running, but she wouldn’t if she’s curled up warm and snug against him on the sofa. She’s always loved Harry more than he deserves, considering how little she actually gets to see of him.

Nick checks the luggage tags on his suitcases, searching for clues of where he’s come from, expecting to see an airport code for LAX or JFK or maybe NRT. Nick used to know exactly where he was in the world and how many hours of time difference was between them. The tags just read LDN, though.

As expected, Harry’s fast asleep under a blanket on the sofa. He doesn’t stir when Nick walks in, but he can sleep through just about anything after so long on the road. Pig blinks blearily up at Nick from where she’s tucked in between Harry’s bent knees and the back of the sofa. He leans in to give her a scratch behind the ear. She snuffles at him and burrows her head back into Harry’s calves.

Nick pours himself a glass of water and sits in the recliner across from Harry. There’s a folded up towel beneath his unruly hair and his face is clean shaven again. Nick’s sure there’s a pile of dirty clothes in front of his shower and another used towel draped haphazardly over the tub. He’s wearing one of Nick’s jumpers, a worn-in one from Nick’s Topman collection with Pig’s face doodled on the side. Nick wore it to a work thing last night and draped it over the foot board before going to bed. It isn’t clean.

 _God,_ Harry has no fucking right.

Nick tries to feel angry that he’s still here, that he’s here despite Nick’s express instructions that he _not be here_ when Nick got back, that he’s made himself at home like he still has any right to — but it doesn’t quite stick. The anger that burnt through his chest earlier has mostly faded, doused out with wine and exhaustion. He’s back to just feeling hollow again. Emptied-out auditorium, burnt-out field, bombed-out building. Stupid, broken heart.

Harry’s upended the box of break up stuff on Nick’s coffee table, debris from the last five years littered across the scarred wood. There’s the vintage silk shirt Nick bought him at a garage sale in Brixton, the _Dr. Schrammek_ face wash Harry used years ago when his teenaged skin was still oily and acne-prone, a cookbook Harry brought back from South Korea after getting obsessed with _pajeon_. Chargers for devices Harry no longer owns, old T-shirts that wouldn’t fit over his broadened shoulders, pants he dropped on Nick’s bedroom floor and never came back for.

Nick’s watched him grow and outgrow things since he was seventeen. He just never quite imagined he’d be one of those things.

The kind thing to do would be to let Harry sleep off his jet lag on the sofa, pull a blanket over him or offer him a bed, but there’s just more of this strange hollowness in his chest where his kindness should be. 

Harry clearly isn't going to fuck off without some sort of conversation. No point in delaying the inevitable. 

—

**January 2016**  
The last time he saw Harry, he’d been unshowered and unkempt and unabashed in Nick’s kitchen, making them a well-earned breakfast in the late afternoon after too many drinks the night before. There had been a dozen bites in the shape of Nick’s mouth over his ribcage, bruises like Nick’s fingertips blossoming around his thighs. Harry had measured out baking powder and squeezed lemon juice and taken his sweet, damn time.

Harry’s band had been barely a month into the hiatus, and for the very first time they’d had a leisurely lie-in without worrying about when a black car would inevitably yank Harry back out of Nick’s life. Harry had ridden him slow and sweet that morning, reaching back with lubed fingers to rub Nick’s hole as he ground down against him.

And then Nick had leant against the kitchen counter with a cuppa, watching Harry flailing with flour and foolishly thought _yeah, okay, I could get used to this._

Harry had caught him looking. “What? Have I still got jizz on my face or something?”

Nick had bitten his lip to keep from just outright beaming as Harry had rubbed at his cheek. He’d motioned towards the mountain of dough in front of Harry. “That’s _way_ more scones than we can realistically get through, popstar.”

“Oh.” Harry had assessed the bowl in front of him and shrugged. “Pop some in the freezer for when your young stupid models spend the night.”

“Nah,” Nick had said, his mouth faster than his brain, his defence mechanisms lagging, everything in him lulled into a false sense of security by too many orgasms and the promise of a home-cooked breakie with a boy who wasn't on his way out the door for once. “Nobody wants to unearth freezer-burnt scones in my freezer ten years from now, when they come to take me to the retirement village.”

Harry had smiled oddly over his shoulder. “Ten years?”

Nick had cleared his throat, belatedly aware that he’d flashed his cards without quite meaning to. “Well I can't live here forever, can I? At some point I'll need a wheelchair ramp and a shower handle or summat.”

Harry had held his gaze. “You’re not going to offer anyone breakie for ten years?”

There had been a slightly too long pause. He’d known Harry had heard it. “They’re young stupid models, Harold, it’s not like they eat much anyway.”

Harry’s hands had frozen on the sifter of flour, some grams already in the bowl and more grams all over Nick’s floor. He’d narrowed his eyes. “When’s the last time you shagged someone?”

“Haz, come on.”

“No, no. Indulge me. When’s the last time you shagged someone?”

“Half an hour ago. It was pretty spectacular, I might—”

“Not me. When’s the last time you shagged someone who wasn’t me?”

“Does wanking count?”

Harry had dropped the sifter into the bowl and dusted flour off his hands. He’d propped a hand on his hip. He’d sounded vaguely irritated. He’d been blissfully naked. Nick’s heartbeat had been loud in his ears. “Do you really think wanking counts, Nick?”

Nick had gathered up all the courage he had in him. “I don’t know,” he’d said with a stiff shrug, in some wretched attempt at nonchalance. “A few months. Sometime last year. I don’t remember.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters, Nick. Who?”

“I honestly don’t remember. Maybe that guy from the Coach event I DJed at, I think. The one with the hands, I told you about him.”

Well, he’d said the guy had long fingers that got Nick _just_ right. He hadn’t said anything about how Nick had closed his eyes and pathetically wished they were Harry’s instead, or how his eyes had been unforgivably wet after he’d come. The guy had been nice about it and all, even when Nick had gotten the hell out of his flat without returning the favour.

“Fucking hell, Nick. That’s a year ago.”

“It’s not a year ago.” 

Eight months, maybe, if even.

“You’ve not fucked anyone else for a year?” Harry had braced himself against the kitchen counter, like this was somehow too much for him to process. The muscles and tendons in his arms had stood out from where he was gripping the wood. “You always come so fucking quick when we haven't seen each other for a while. I'd always thought it was just… me.”

Nick had looked at him, really looked, trying to work out where to put his feet. “I didn't think you minded. It's not like I leave you hanging.”

“I don't care how fast you come. This conversation is not about premature ejaculation. Nick, I swear to god.”

“Hey, whoa, premature nothing. It’s not that bad.” It was just hard to do anything else when Harry was back in his arms after so long out there in the world, after so long out there in someone else’s. The first orgasms had always been about pissing on what was his, about marking his territory, about coming back home after all this time adrift.

By the time Harry was bent double underneath him later, sweat-slick and panting open-mouthed and fucking _begging_ for it, Nick had generally recovered enough control to make it last for him. And then every time he slid into Harry, filling him up as deep as he could, tucking himself inside Harry's body like he belonged there, he couldn’t help but think _finally home_.

Harry had been looking at him expectantly, but Nick hadn’t known what to say except, “It is you. Just you. Always you.”

“You don't come like a virgin on prom night because of me, you do it because you haven't had any sex for months and you're literally fucking gagging for it.” 

Nick had ducked his head against the Americanism. Harry had been so far away for so long, he’d wondered if Harry even heard them anymore. “I'm always gagging for it with you.”

Harry had hissed out a breath. “I can't be the only person you have sex with, Nick. That’s too much pressure.”

“I'm not asking you to stop sleeping around, I'm just—”

“Good, cause I'm not going to,” Harry had snapped. There had been something in his eyes Nick hadn’t been able to read, something that might have looked like fear if Nick could have faced it. It had felt like utter, abject cruelty. “I can't give that to you.”

“I'm not asking you for that,” Nick had muttered weakly. “I'm not asking you for anything.”

“Good, ‘cause I wouldn't give it to you if you did.”

Nick had always suspected as much, but it had been nice to have it confirmed. Christ. _Nice_. 

Harry had turned the oven off and picked his phone off the counter. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”

“I didn't— it's not anything, Haz. I just haven't really been up for it with anyone else. Old age catching up to me at last.”

“No more jokes about your age. We said no bullshit. This is some _fucking bullshit_ , Nick.”

In the few moments he’d allowed himself to speculate about how this conversation might go, somehow he’d never quite anticipated this. In retrospect, he’s not sure how it could have gone any other way. “I suppose I'm not as good at staying unaffected as you are.”

That had seemed to make Harry angrier. “I'm not unaffected,” he’d snapped, making obnoxious finger quotes around the word. “I'm realistic. I travel constantly. I can’t be a poof and be in this band. There is no conceivable situation in which this could work.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“I’m twenty-two, Nick. I don’t want a fucking wife.”

“I said I get it. You can stop now.”

“Is that what you want, though? For me to go down on one knee and tell you I'll set my entire fucking life on fire for you?”

“As much as I like the sight of you on your knees for me, no thanks.”

“I can't be your boyfriend,” Harry had repeated, reminding Nick of a scared boy in a dark room years and years ago. Christ, that felt so long ago. Nick’s bones ached with the memory.

He should have said what he’d said last time, placated him and ended this conversation before it took everything else down with it. But he’d always been a fucking masochist when it came to Harry Styles, and he was tired of pretending that this was working when it wasn’t. “You mean you won't.”

Harry had looked taken aback. He’d taken a few actual steps back, disturbing the dusting of flour on the floor with his dainty, naked feet. “Is that what you want from me?”

Nick had fixated on his ankles, on _NEVER GONNA_ on the right and _DANCE AGAIN_ on the left. He’d always hated that song. There was a smear of butter on the floor beside one of Harry’s ankles. Everything was cocking itself up.

“What, Nick, are you in love with me or something?”

It had taken everything in Nick to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry was so steadfast in every other part of his life, sometimes Nick wondered if he was the only one who got to see him like this, undressed and unpeeled, all exposed nerve endings, terrified. Harry’s voice had broken. “Nick, for fuck’s sake.”

“Stop it.”

“For _fuck’s sake_ ,” Harry had repeated, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

“Haz. Stop it.”

“No, _you_ stop it. You fucking lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Can’t do this,” Harry had snapped, and then he’d taken barely two minutes to get dressed and get his things. He’d knocked a picture off the wall in the hallway when he slammed the door shut behind himself, the glass shattering in his wake.

—

**May 2016**  
Harry sits up with great effort, yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He looks disoriented for a few moments, like Nick’s pulled him out of a coma. Nick should be patient with him while he gets his bearings, but he can’t. He’s tired and heartbroken and sloshed and empty and he just doesn’t have it in him anymore.

He sits back in his recliner, folding his hands in his lap and waiting until Harry’s mostly upright. “Well?”

“Um.” Harry looks at him the way he looks at anyone, intense and intimate and focused, like Nick’s the only other person in the world. Nick doesn’t let it mean anything, can’t anymore. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to say whatever it is you need to say, so you can leave and I can go to sleep.”

Harry’s mouth twists. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, pushing his hair back even though there isn’t really much to push back anymore. “Why are you so angry with me?”

“This isn’t anger, Haz. It’s self-preservation.”

Harry shakes his head, frowning. “Since when do you need that from me?”

“Since you apparently have no regard for my personal space or my boundaries,” Nick says shortly. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own. “In what universe is it okay for you to be here after I’ve explicitly asked you not to be?”

Harry has the grace to look ashamed. “You weren’t picking up my calls.”

He’s got exactly three missed calls from Harry on his phone, all since that night Nick texted him about his box of things. But it’s not like _Nick’s_ been the one avoiding him for weeks and weeks. “We’ve had months to talk,” he points out, unwilling to let Harry claim any sort of moral high ground here. “You’ve not been around.”

“You could’ve rung, too, you know. ”

“You walked out on me, remember? Slammed the damn door like a petulant child and then fucked off to the States or wherever. I’m not much for running after people who run away from me.”

Harry looks down at his hands. “Okay, that’s fair.” He cracks his knuckles one by one, the bones popping in the heavy silence. “Will you make me a tea? I’m so knackered.”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me for a cuppa right now.”

Harry looks up again, his eyes unreadable. “I can make it myself.”

“Jesus Christ. Fine.” Nick makes him a truly passive aggressive brew, barely steeps the tea bag and splashes in a random amount of almond milk and chucks in a sweetener instead of sugar. It spills onto the coffee table when he sets it down. He sits back down in his armchair, folding his hands over his knee and looking at Harry expectantly.

“Definitely not angry, then,” Harry mutters, taking a cautious sip. His eyebrows knit together at the taste, but apparently he knows better than to complain. “I… I’ve missed you.”

“Oh god, save me whatever this is. Why are you even here? What do you want?”

“I’ve never known you to hold a grudge like this.”

He doesn’t say, _It's not a grudge, it's my heart after you took a sledgehammer to it_. “I'm full of surprises.”

“You're telling me.”

The air gets stuck in Nick’s lungs for a second, and maybe he isn’t even lying to himself by saying it’s in fury. “You were cruel, Harry. It’s not the same as— as being careless, or whatever. You were—”

“I remember,” Harry says soberly, meeting Nick’s eyes. “I wish I hadn't been.”

Nick forces himself to hold Harry’s gaze. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Harry argues. “You caught me off-guard, you— you’ve never scared me like that before.”

Nick knows. Fuck, he _knows,_ but it still doesn't change anything. “Thank God you left, then.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Harry stops himself there, wincing at his own lie. He _did_ mean to, they both know he ran as fast and as far as he could, that he left and didn’t look back, that he said what he said and didn’t make any attempt to unsay it. “I just— I like having people around, you know? In passenger seats, hotel rooms, dinners, wherever.”

“Up your arse.”

Harry’s cheeks burn red, but he doesn’t duck his head to hide it. He looks a little shocked, a little devastated. “Nick. Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s... Jesus, Nick. Just. I flirt and travel and fuck around, it's who I am. I like people. I like intimacy. I like getting off. I don't like to be alone. _You_ don't like to be alone, either.”

 _I don't like to be alone but I don't know how to be with anyone that isn't you,_ Nick thinks, but he's humiliated himself enough already. “Don't tell me who you are like you think I don't know you. I know who you are.”

Harry drops his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this. When did you get this angry with me?”

Nick doesn’t answer. He suspects it was a rhetorical question on Harry’s part. He can be slow to process sometimes, but he’s not actually thick.

“I just... I want to come to London and see you like I always have. Watch TV and hang out and see our brilliant friends and spend the night with you and Pig. Nothing has to change, right?”

Nick can think of exactly nothing sensible to say. He never said _I’m in love with you_ , but he knows Harry heard it anyway. There’s no way to rewind, to go back and pretend they didn’t both hear it, to pretend Harry didn’t abandon him in the wreckage of an emotional hit and run. “It’s already changed.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Harry pleads, like he genuinely doesn’t know any better. He bites down on his lip, takes a deep breath and then, “Look can we just... I mean, fuck. Can we just go to bed?”

Nick snaps, “Are you actually mental? Have you not heard a single thing I’ve said?”

“Take me to bed, Nick.” His voice cracks. “Please.”

Nick sighs. This is even crueler still than the last time they saw each other. “You can’t… no. I don’t sleep with my exes.”

“For god’s sake, I’m not your ex.” When Nick doesn’t say anything, Harry leans forward to rest his hand on Nick’s knee, his fingertips bumping against Nick’s folded hands. “I'm not your ex. Please. Don't ruin this.“

 _You already did,_ Nick thinks, swallowing thickly. He can’t let this happen, but he can’t move away, either. Harry’s too close, to beautiful, too much. Nick’s always been so weak for him.

“Please,” Harry says, his voice raw with it. “I’m asking. Fuck, I’m begging.”

Nick tries to shake his head, but nothing happens. He fixates on Harry’s soft, bright eyes like a deer caught in headlights. His heart’s a hummingbird in his chest, his head full of white noise and alarm bells. He knows better than to allow this, but he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Harry’s hand on Nick’s cheek is clammy and warm and familiar. His breath tastes like sleep and a badly made cup of tea and like _finally_ coming home after so much time adrift.

It’s been so, so long and Nick’s still so, so weak for him. He fists his hands in the sweater Harry’s stolen from him. “Harry...”

“Nick,” Harry whispers, cupping Nick’s jaw, and Nick’s heart kicks into high gear. He lets Harry press his mouth to his own, squeezing his eyes shut. “See? I knew you’d come around—”

Nick hears Harry’s yelp before he realises he’s pushed him off. He gets out of his chair, shoving Harry’s hands off him. “Stop. Just— Stop touching me. I said stop.”

Harry pulls back. “Nick, come on, for fuck’s sake, _please_.”

“No, what—” Nick wraps his arms over his chest, taking two steps back and knocking the back of his knee against a side table. Pig’s out of her bed, trotting around their legs like she maybe she knows she should be protecting someone from something. “What are you doing here? I mean, what is this?”

“I already said,” Harry whines. “I missed you.”

“Do you really not— care? What this is—” Nick swallows, rushing on before he can say _doing to me_. “You know how I feel.” Nick really desperately wishes that was in question, but it’s not. “You _know_.”

Harry doesn’t say anything in response. Nick doesn’t know why he expected him to. “Right. You should probably go, I think.”

“Nick, you’re. Fuck, I don’t want to lose you. You’re making a mess over nothing.”

 _Over nothing_. Nick’s blood runs cold. “Fucking hell, I can’t—” he clears his throat, draws in a breath, consciously pulls himself together — “You need to leave.”

“Nick—”

“I know you like having a girl in every port, but I can’t be that for you. ‘Not wanting to lose me’ is not a good enough reason for you to upend my life all over again. You broke my fucking heart, do you realise that?”

“Nick—”

“No, and you know what? You just flew halfway across the fucking world because I put a face wash and an iphone charger into a cardboard box and then wouldn’t take your calls for two days. It sounds like you need to work out how you feel about me.”

Harry’s face twists in a way Nick has to look away from. “Nick.”

“I need you to leave.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“It can’t be any other way, and if you don’t understand why, then… then you definitely need to leave. I’ve asked you to leave. I've told you to leave. You need to leave.”

Harry gets up. "I'll give you a few days to cool off. I’ll call."

"Don't bother."

“Nick—”

"I'm going to need that space we talked about. Leave the keys. You can't show up out of the blue anymore."

Harry looks at him for a long moment, his narrowed eyes searching Nick’s, as though there’s anything left for him to find, as though Nick isn’t completely hollowed out from him. His fingers are clumsy as they slide Nick’s key off his key chain, the sleeves of Nick’s jumper slipping over his wrists as he puts it on the hall table. Nick should ask for the jumper back, but he can’t bear it. There’s something poetic about Harry wearing _that_ to walk out of his life, after all.

This is it, Nick can’t help but think. The break up Harry cheated him out of last time, the sight of Harry walking away for the last time. It’s miserable like an Adele song, mournful pianos and minor chords and _I won’t let you close enough to hurt me_ as though he ever had a choice in the matter.

Nick tries his hardest to commit every part of his leaving to memory: Harry’s hand turning the doorhandle, his worn chelsea boots on Nick’s doorstep, the wheels of his suitcase dragging across the landing, the back of his newly shorn head when he doesn’t turn back for one last look, the door shutting behind him with a polite, quiet click.

Nick stands frozen in his hallway for a long moment, making entirely sure he’s not coming back. Pig sits beside him, her tail wagging as though she thinks they’re about to go after him.

His heavy, clumsy legs barely manage to carry him back to the living room. Harry’s not finished his shit tea, nor has he taken his box of break up things. Nick slams them both to the floor, before his knees give out beneath him.

This _thing_ of theirs was always going to fall apart. Nick just hadn’t realized how much of himself it would take down with it.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable tumblr post](https://jiksax.tumblr.com/post/190575645344/fic-that-same-old-love)  
>    
> Title from ["That Same Old Love" by Selena Gomez.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9h30Bx4Klxg)


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